


I Miss You So

by Pthithia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cats, Established Relationship, M/M, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pthithia/pseuds/Pthithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waits there for three hours before giving up. It's time to sleep; he doesn't want to show up hungover and sleep deprived for work tomorrow.</p>
<p>Tomorrow, certainly, the call will come. Tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Miss You So

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Where'd You Go? by Fort Minor and having a major blast from the past, and then this fic was born literally a few hours later. I definitely recommend listening to it before you read, not only is it a great song, but it earns serious nostalgia points.

Grantaire flicks on the hall light, the front door clicking behind him. His keys rattle as they drop into the bowl, his clunky boots scrape the light grey carpet as he steps out of them, abandoning them by the door. Off goes his coat, in the general direction of the coathanger, followed quickly by his scarf, his beanie. He stands there for a moment, still, staring at the messy pile in the otherwise tidy hallway.

He sighs, picks them up, neatly hangs them on the hooks and stacks his boots below them. Might as well keep up appearances.

The cat streaks into the front room when Grantaire enters, a fluffy grey blur that nuzzles itself against his paint-smeared jeans. Despite himself Grantaire grins and kneels down, rubbing behind his little ears where the fur grows short and soft. "Hey there. Missed me, did you?"

Rousseau turns a disdainful glance upon him before moving away, leaping up onto the sofa where he knows full well he is not allowed.

"I see." Grantaire stands, fruitlessly trying to shoo the cat off the pale upholstery. "It's just nice to be missed, is all."

When it's obvious that the cat is not moving any time soon Grantaire gives up, instead heading to the kitchen.

Judging by the contents of the fridge (a moldy lemon, a box of baking soda and an icepack) there will be no substantial meal that night. He meant to go shopping yesterday - no, two days ago - but evidently it slipped his mind. Oh, well. It's not like the kitchen is ever really stocked anyway.

He grabs a beer instead, moving back to the other room. Rousseau, apparently, has grown weary of being left alone and has instead chosen to hide under the armchair with his nest of Grantaire’s clean socks accumulated over the last few months. Grantaire just rolls his eyes. What a weird cat. It's not even his; not really. It is nice to have a housemate though.

Blue against red, gold swirls, dashes of grey and pops of crimson smear into one another across the pristine canvas before him. Grantaire takes another drink, emptying that bottle, and absentmindedly reaches for the next one.

It's a fair painting. Certainly not his best, but considering he spends every day teaching moody, ungrateful teenagers about perspective and shadowing and sculpting and drawing, he can at least say it's not the worst he's ever seen.

Grantaire’s not entirely sure what it's meant to be. A person? Inspired by, maybe. Abstract? No, he's never been fond of abstract art. Landscape? That doesn't quite fit either.

Grantaire slashes it through with a long black stripe in the end, before crumpling it up into the bin. _It wasn't that great anyway,_ he thinks, taking another long pull from the dark glass bottle.

It's almost 10:00 by the time he refills Rousseau's bowl with his favorite cat food, rubbing his little head quickly before collapsing onto the couch.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, placing it gently on the arm of the couch before turning the tv on to some home renovation show, allowing it to fill the silence in the apartment.

He checks the phone ten minutes later; the smiling picture taken only a couple years ago flashing up at him, but there's no new notifications. He sets it back down, trying to focus on the show.

The phone buzzes, and Grantaire scrambles for it, swiping the screen open, anticipation building, and-

A text from Jehan, a picture of him and Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta at some bar downtown. _Wish you had come!_  the caption reads. _It's not the same without you!_

Grantaire deflates. Oh. He texts back: _sorry, busy working tonight. maybe next time._

And a few minutes later: _Ok, I'll hold you to that! Night xx_

Grantaire sets the phone back down again and switches the channel to some cooking competition or other, they all blur together.

He waits there for three hours before giving up. It's time to sleep; he doesn't want to show up hungover and sleep deprived for work tomorrow.

Tomorrow, certainly, the call will come. Tomorrow.

*

Grantaire slams the door when he comes home that day. Into the bowl the keys go, on the hook for his coat. In one act of rebellion, he leaves his boots in the middle of the carpet. He'll be sure to trip over those tomorrow morning.

Rousseau does not run to greet him that day, and Grantaire quickly finds him dozing in the room once used as an office, that is now unused altogether, the old posters on the walls, the desk stacked neatly with papers, the old computer turned off in the dark corner.

Grantaire flicks on the light, illuminating the dark, ghostly room into the farthest corners. Rousseau lifts his head, glaring at Grantaire.

"You don't want to be in here," Grantaire says. "Get out, c'mon. You can go sleep on my bed."

The cat flicks his tail proudly before leaping off the chair and strolling out the door.

Grantaire looks around, gives one last furtive glance before he turns the light off again and shuts the door.

In the kitchen he remembers he forgot to shop for the groceries again, and debates the merits of ordering in before grabbing a bottle of wine.

There's a little alcove at the end of the apartment, where he keeps all of his art supplies. It's small and cramped, and probably not good for air circulation, but it's the only part of the apartment left to spare.

Today he tries to sketch Rousseau asleep on the carpet in a patch of sunlight, but it's begun to rain outside, and with no reference he quickly grows discouraged. The drawing ends up in the bin, on top of the last one, and Grantaire decides to put down his pencil for now.

He's had an awful day: two students dropped and destroyed a set of his best oil pastels, he had to break up a fight outside the fine arts center, and in acting as a sixth hour substitute for a calculus professor, he found himself trying to tutor a hysterical student in the practical and theoretical applications of integrals and defining a Riemann sum using geometry. Needless to say, he's dead on his feet.

Jehan texted him again earlier, followed by Joly and then Bahorel, each trying to convince him to come to the club, come to a bar, go dancing, anything to get out of the apartment.

_Work,_  Grantaire had explained. _The cat's sick. I'm too tired._

He hates having to make excuses to his friends. They mean well, really, but the last thing he wants right now is to go partying all night.

Rousseau curls up beside him on the sofa, his warm little body a comforting pressure against Grantaire’s thigh. He smiles down at his furry companion and smoothes the fur on his back, feeling the vibrating purrs coming from his little body.

Tilting his head back to drink from the wine bottle, Grantaire remembers how much that stupid cat hated him when they first met. He also remembers the months after, when a wine glass still calculated into his evening plans. He hasn't used those glasses in almost two years now.

His cell phone, once again balanced carefully on the sofa, sits cold and blank the whole evening, no matter how many times Grantaire checks.

Today he waits until 11:30 before giving up. Not today. But tomorrow- it has to come tomorrow. That's a guarantee. The call has to come tomorrow.

*

The keys rattle in the bowl, a happy sound. Grantaire smooths out his coat, folds his scarf into the pocket, stacks his boots. Today is a good day.

In the kitchen he sets down the bags from the store, putting away bread and eggs and pasta, Rousseau sticking his little head into each bag on the counter, sniffing out the goods.

"I wouldn't forget you," Grantaire teases, tapping the cat on his little nose, which earns him an unimpressed look. "Here." He waves a can of fancy cat food, Rousseau's favorite, in front of his furry friend.

Closing the door to the refrigerator, he follows the cat to his food bowl. Rousseau looks at him pointedly.

After feeding the cat he winds up back in the living room, sketchbook balanced on his lap, and instead of a beer he's drinking coffee. Today is a special day; he doesn't want to be drunk for it. It's been three years now, and he's determined to be happy. Three years is a big deal.

"C'mon, Rousseau." Grantaire pats the cushion next to him, grinning at the cat. He swipes his whiskers quickly with one paw before leaping up next to him. "It's a special occasion."

They both sit together, Grantaire sketching lightly, the cat dozing beside him until the sun is long gone from the sky. Grantaire examines his sketchbook with a critical eye: he's always been fascinated by human subjects, and today he's managed to produce something he's proud of. Maybe he'll even sign it later, color it.

His phone buzzes. _This is it,_ he thinks. _It's only 6:30, this is- this is-_

This is an email from the school, reminding staff about the upcoming parent-teacher conferences.

He bites the inside of his cheek and marks it as read, opening his contacts.

_No new calls,_  the phone says at the top of the screen. Of course. It's only 6:30, after all. Later it will come. Later, certainly.

At 9:00, he's watching the news, and Rousseau moves to his little cat bed in the corner.

At 10:30, some comedy reruns are on, and he's nervously tapping his foot against the carpet.

At 11:45, infomercials are running, and Grantaire’s eyes are focused solely on his blank phone.

It's past one in the morning before he turns the tv off, sitting quietly in the darkness.

No call. No text. Nothing. Which is... normal. But today, he thought for sure _today-_

He walks slowly to the bedroom and collapses on the wrinkled sheets without bothering to pull off his jeans.

Tomorrow, maybe.

*

Grantaire is picking through a bowl of cereal the next day, the evening news in the background, when it happens. The phone rings, shrill and sudden, startling him and sending Rousseau fleeing to the bedroom.

Grantaire practically drops his bowl on the coffee table, swiping his phone from the cushion next to him. "Hello?" he answers, breathless, feeling almost sick from the relief.

"Hey."

And there it is. The voice Grantaire’s been dying to hear. He feels faint.

Grantaire can practically hear Enjolras smiling over the phone. "How are you?"

"Great," Grantaire answers almost too enthusiastically. "I'm great. How are you?"

"Oh, you know. Dead tired. Did you see the senator on the news?" Enjolras asks excitedly.

"I did." Grantaire curls up tighter on the couch. "I'm glad. Now that you've gotten the Senate to work with you, and it's an election year, maybe it'll be done soon." He paused. "And you can work closer to home again."

"Oh, I don't know, even after this there's still a lot for me to do. I may even be asked back, maybe in a higher position. I'd love to keep working here." Even over the phone, his voice is passionate and dreamy.

"Right," Grantaire mumbles. "I just thought you might want to come home. That is, if this still is...  _home_."

Enjolras sighs. "You know this is such a good opportunity for me, R; to work for a government official, advise him, help make the decisions. This is the job that's going to help me climb in politics."

"You got this job two years ago, Enj."

"It's not exactly something that I only hold for a few weeks, R."

"It's been four months since I last saw you in person. And that was for two days. With our friends." Grantaire closes his eyes. This is not the call he has been hoping for.

"You know I want to be here with you, of course I do, it's just-" Enjolras huffs. "I'm doing really important work here, and I'm really happy to be doing it, and we both knew how hard this was going to be."

Grantaire hums in agreement.

There is a long pause, during which he can only hear the soft breathing on the other line. "Well... happy anniversary," Enjolras says.

"Belated anniversary. It was yesterday," Grantaire says before he can stop himself.

"I know that." Enjolras sounds irritated now. "Our meeting ran late and by the time I got home I was so exhausted. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Ah."

"What's wrong, 'Taire?"

"It's just..." Grantaire glances at the framed picture of them both, on the wall next to the tv. "I don't understand why these trips take so long."

"My job is very labor intensive, R, I'm working eighty hours a week with these people, entertaining and planning and negotiating and drafting and-"

"But you haven't called me in two weeks. You don't text, don't email. You missed our anniversary." Grantaire swings his legs off the couch, resting his forearms on his thighs. "I plan my whole day around waiting for a call from you that never comes. And when it does we hardly speak."

Enjolras doesn't say anything.

"This used to be your home. _Our_ home. And now, what, you're here thirty days in a year?" Enjolras clears his throat. "I haven't changed your office at all, you know. I keep the pictures and furniture, tidy the apartment, take care of your cat because I keep hoping one day you'll come back. But- I'm not sure when you will."

"I will, really soon." Enjolras’ voice grows soft. "Listen, elections are going to be over soon. Work will slow down, I'll take a vacation. A couple weeks, just you and me. Okay?"

"When?" Grantaire asks, almost pitifully.

"The next few months. I promise, Grantaire. I've been missing home."

"And?"

"And you, of course. I want to be home too, but now's just not a good time. But soon. I'll come back soon."

Grantaire rubs his temples, watching Rousseau slink back into the room, glaring at his phone. "Okay," he says, because there is nothing else for him to say.

"I have to go, 'Taire. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Promise."

"I'll be waiting." Grantaire smiles a little.

"I love you."

"Love you too, Enj. Don't work too hard."

"Thanks. Goodbye."

"Bye."

The line goes dead, and Grantaire turns his phone off, setting it face down on the coffee table. Rousseau cocks his head to the side, looking at Grantaire curiously.

"C'mere." Grantaire holds out his arms. The cat narrows his eyes, slowly coming forward, tentatively inspecting him before leaping into his lap, settling heavily across his legs. Grantaire smiles, runs his hand through the soft grey fur and tilts his head back onto the couch, closing his eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will call.

*

Today Rousseau is aloof and moody. Grantaire fills his little bowls, and after a failed attempt at petting the cat he gets well out of its way, shaking his head.

Back with his sketchbook on the couch, it's really just another day. Work from eight in the morning to five in the evening, come home to Enjolras’ cat, cook dinner, and sit down to draw and look over the student's projects.

There are no artists - well, no _true_ artists - in any of his classes. Some are better than others, some think they're better, and others flat out don't care, which infuriates Grantaire more than anything. If he has to prostitute his time out to hormonal, moody teenagers, he at least wants them to take in the information. It's not like he wants to be up at seven in the morning at a school either.

His mind strays from the sketchbook in front of him to Enjolras. He wonders what he's doing, scmoozing around with politicians, late nights, working in an office by day and sleeping in hotels by night.

Three years they've been dating. Two years since Enjolras got his new job. 23 months since Enjolras left to work. Four months since they've seen each other.

Grantaire opens his phone, listlessly scrolling through some unread messages.

_Jehan: Hey you spork, tomorrow's Saturday and we're taking you out to have fun if we have to kidnap you. Lots of love!_

_Bahorel: Hey I'm headed to the gym in an hour want to come?_

_Bossuet: You're giving Joly anxiety. Please answer your phone :(_

Grantaire smiles at his friends, declining Bahorel's offer and sending assurance of his health and sanity to Joly before setting his phone in the usual position. The tv murmurs in the background as he sets pencil to paper.

The hours tick by, one by one. Grantaire practices shading. Grantaire draws Rousseau. He draws Enjolras from memory, and he draws the perspective of his feet propped up on the coffee table, and he draws Enjolras giving a speech, and finally he draws the shadowed bedroom he can see from the couch.

At midnight, he closes his sketchbook and switches all the lights off, cloaked in darkness once more. Enjolras isn't calling tonight, evidently.

As he trudges out of the room Rousseau jumps up from his little bed, following along at Grantaire’s heels all the way to the bedroom.

Grantaire strips himself out of his jeans and t-shirt, running a hand through his wild hair and smiling a little as Rousseau leaps onto the sheets.

And laying down with the cat sleeping carelessly on his stomach, Grantaire closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come, ready to wake up and start the process all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading!


End file.
